


you know what i am

by trusteachother



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow-centric, Letters, Light Angst, Past Character Death, Pining, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23114596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trusteachother/pseuds/trusteachother
Summary: “I'll ring the doorbell, apologize for not calling, kiss her cheek, ask if I could come in, excuse myself if she has company.”That's what he has been chanting over and over in his head since waking up that morning. Perfectly logical, expected, well-mannered behaviour.He didn't count on Sansagaspingupon seeing him, throwing her hands around his neck and hugging him as tightly as to hurt. It threw him completely off, made color rise high in his cheeks and worst of all – made him stutter his words. He barely made any sense explaining when he'd arrived, why he hadn't called, how nice it was to see her.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 137





	you know what i am

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is very very self-indulgent. It's supposed to take place in the 1960s but it's _Winterfellian_ 60s so I took my liberties :) Maybe the plot won't make any sense, it's just my excuse to torment Jon Snow a little. Get ready for a lot commas, blushing and plenty of usage of ‘—’ and ‘--’ for no apparent reason.
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** Mentions of death, but nothing explicit in that department. There is one threat of r*pe but it's mentioned when refering to the past and doesn't come to anything. (Joffrey, obviously).

Jon arrayed himself in his best clothes — fine black trousers and a cotton mint green shirt he knew Sansa would appreciate.

He took the bus, then walked five blocks to Sansa's new house, did exactly what he planned to do, step by step. 

_“I'll ring the doorbell, apologize for not calling, kiss her cheek, ask if I could come in, excuse myself if she has company.”_ That's what he'd been chanting over and over in his head since waking up that morning. Perfectly logical, expected, well-mannered behaviour.

He didn't count on Sansa _gasping_ upon seeing him, throwing her hands around his neck and hugging him as tightly as to hurt. It threw him completely off, made color rise high in his cheeks and worst of all – made him stutter his words. He barely made any sense explaining when he'd arrived, why he hadn't called, how nice it was to see her.

He wasn't mentally prepared for how gorgeous she looked, how tall, how sweet her perfume smelled. 

He didn't even register her invitation to enter until he was inside, nostrils filled with her, mind in a hazy loop of _SansaSansaSansa._

It was supposed to be a short visit, if it even came to that. Some quick catching up, an excuse, a polite promise of another time. Saying yes to dinner, this was indulging. 

But saying 'no' to her? After that hug? After she said he looked _'so handsome'_ ? How excited she was to be trying one of her mother's recipes with the very costly ingredients? How she was about to be done and he'd _‘come at just the right time'_ ? Saying 'no' after she framed his face with her hands, like he had seen her do Jeyne's baby a few years ago, out of sheer, pure _joy?_ Joy she felt because of him? It was just unthinkable.

Of course he said yes to dinner.

And so he sits now on one of her kitchen stools, watching her chop onions to add to her specialty soup, thinking to himself —

_“I like your fingers.”_

Is that something too weird to fixate on? Something someone the likes of Petyr Baelish would whisper ominously to an empty room? He's only thinking it, though, hoping Sansa can't read his mind (the way she seems to).

She smiles at him while stirring the pot, her blue eyes sparkle over the counter and Jon has to clear his throat and look away, for some reason he'd much rather not dwell on.

"You okay there, soldier?"

This is enough for a long forgotten feeling to resume its taking root. 

"Oh, I'm no soldier."

He'd arrived at Winterfell two days ago and would be staying until Sunday. Mr. Mormont had _made_ him take at least a week off so he could look good on paper. 

Sansa is the only person he has seen since his return. Arya was in Braavos last he'd heard and there is no one else. 

They are all dead.

He'd been so hesitant to visit. Not because of _her_ but _him_ . He knew seeing her would wake something from slumber — _something_ he'd rather not name. 

Her letters served as a window to home but this thing could be stifled, cut, as soon as he finished the last sentence, because it was only _reading_ from Sansa, _reading_ , like a character in a novel, foreign and unattainable. That mechanism worked even better when she started sending her poems, the ones he asked for profusely.

_“You'll not believe me when I say I might be more excited about your creative writing classes than you yourself. Please don't hesitate to send anything you write, if you wish to, it would make me ridiculously happy. I've read all the books I've brought with me already and I could buy more, but I'd rather read the writings of a friend.”_

It was easy to separate the living, breathing Sansa from his dear correspondent. He had learned memory was a feeble thing, almost something he could manipulate and he knew seeing her would trigger something the snow at his feet back at the Gift was good at numbing. It would debunk his whole philosophy. 

(Did he really believe in it? If he truly could forget at will then he could've stayed).

Still, he couldn't not see her. 

"Blow!" Sansa says, a big smile on her face, offering him her wooden spoon. 

He does as instructed and carefully takes a sip. He'd quite literally drink piss if Sansa asked but the soup is the right amount of salty, tastes of carrots and onions and he's been eating the junk Edd cooks for months. It is, quite frankly, just what he needed.

Not because Sansa made it. It has absolutely nothing to do with that. Sansa's cooking deserves every variation of _'mmmmmhhhh'-s_ and _'ooooh, that's good'-s_ he can think of. He gives her just that.

She _beams_ at his praise and Jon holds his breath.

"It's been a while," she says, "since you left. I was thinking you'd never come back." 

She says it with a friendly smile on her face, but her eyes have lost all their shine.

"Me too." It's the most he can bring himself to say and she doesn't push.

It is just that — there is so much death in Winterfell. He can't say that to her. It is too unfair, too in her face. Arya and her hadn't been in the car, thank the gods, but Ned had. Catelyn. Bran. Rickon. _Robb._ He thought he couldn't be more miserable then. He was so angry at everything. Arya had made it clear she had to be alone to process, though he still checked on her. Sansa needed him most. He vowed to himself to be her friend at least, since he couldn't bring her family back. 

She already had friends though and she regarded Jon as thoughtful for calling and bringing food and hugging her and telling her to call him anytime she wanted, but she couldn't open up to him, not properly, not then. Maybe if he'd stayed.

A week after the funeral, her mother told him she had breast cancer, terminal, and three weeks later she was dead. He had left for the Gift then.

"So, how are you liking your… place?" She asks. She isn't supposed to know _where_ exactly he is stationed, because of the medical studies that are conducted there – not anything unethical, but research for vaccines and various drugs that are developed at the army-base-turned-private-laboratory. Just the base at the Gift, that is what they have to say, not any section names or buildings. She sends her letters to the central ‘base’, from where they are redistributed. 

His job is to make sure everyone's I.Ds are valid and visible, that no papers or tools are taken from one room to the other, that only exclusive personnel enter certain areas and, most importantly, that no classified information gets out.

That policy goes from serious, detailed research being sold in the black market to informing the number of chairs in his private quarters to a loved one in a letter. And of course, every single letter is checked. Not thoroughly, but checked. So his missives are always short, to the point, mostly questions for Sansa. ‘ _How is everyone? How have you been doing? What's Arya been up to? Could you please send some more verses if you have them?’_ He tries to send only one a month. He really doesn't wanna be a bother.

"My _place_ is great," he says, nodding, "though some may deny it. I share a room with a Free Folk called Asrin."

"Oh, a woman?" Her stirring stops and the liquid resumes its bubbling. "I thought they weren't allowed in the army? You never said.”

"Oh, that's cause it's not the army. Sorry if I wasn't ever clear enough,” he clears his throat, combs his hair with his fingers, “The Watch is a private security company that doesn't depend on the army. The Gift is an army base officially, yes, but it's being used by a private medical company for the time being, which hired _us_ as security. We don't respond to the army and the Watch allows women. And she has a _girlfriend_." 

He's not sure why he's said it, why she has to know him and Asrin are nothing but roommates. She nods, focus returned to the task at hand. Deep down he knows, he _knows_ exactly why he's said that and why it was the _right_ thing to say _._

He turns his attention to the song playing on the radio or else he'll start thinking about things he shouldn't. Imagining — how his contract is two months shy from expiration, what it could mean. If it could mean anything.

She turns to fetch something from a cupboard, her red hair reminiscent of liquid fire. Her dress a soft pink with a white ribbon around the waist, it looks new, fresh from the dry cleaners. It's a fine thing, though he wishes she'd worn her light-blue one with the flowers all around it. 

He catches sight of her pale calf when she turns and he has to look away.

Returning with two green bowls and spoons, she quickly twists her hair into a bun before turning off the stove and pouring the soup carefully into the containers. It's so domestic it hurts, both scary and utterly divine how easily he could get used to it.

He shifts on the stool and wonders why he's suddenly so hot. Probably just the soup. He itches to ask if she would consider making Old Nan's kidney pies for him but he knows she would say yes and beam again and he can't handle that again so soon.

"So, how are things?" He asks finally.

"Oh, nothing much, just finished classes and my finals were good, so I'm happy about that. Missing Arya a bit, but don't let her know. And I've been on a couple of dates with this guy."

He tries to keep his focus on the carrots in front of him and sound as nonchalant as possible. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. His name is Harry but I've not known him long. I'm not too confident I will ever get to that point because he's a bit full of himself in my opinion. He's in my Contemporary History class."

All he can say is, "Yeah?", again, because God cursed him with hopelessness as his defining trait.

"For our first date he took me to this fancy restaurant and all he did was talk about himself. But don't be fooled, he can be sweet. What about you? Any other girls besides Asrin you might be interested in?"

"No."

_Only you. Only you. Only you._

But he can't say that and now he's made things awkward. He starts looking about the room, willing his brain to come up with something so as to not completely ruin the evening. 

Sansa and Arya have sold their childhood home and gained a sum short of a fortune from the sale. They bought a smaller house, though still imposing, to share. Sansa lived alone since Arya had decided to go see the world. _'She's with a friend, she's told me, though I still don't know for sure if it's a friend or a_ _good_ _friend, if you catch my drift,'_ Sansa shared in a letter a few months back.

Her house is full of pictures he doesn't want to stare at for too long, looking at people he knows are rotting in a box always makes his stomach turn. She has some plants and shelves full of books and a record player. 

He thinks to ask if she's kept Ned's records but he bites his tongue.

"No one's caught my eye in a long time."

"That's too bad,” she says and she does sound sorry.

Sometimes Sansa is too enigmatic for him, too unreachable. When he was younger, he felt Sansa belonged to a place he could never understand, a secret society not even Robb was allowed into. There was a sort of purity to her as well as an air that seemed dangerous. He was reminded of that, a feeling of being out of place, not because he was less, but because she was so unique and flew so high he could never reach her.

"I've missed you. I know that's a strange thing to say, given that we weren't true friends, not _before."_

His first missive had been short, a very forward thing. He had realized a few days after his having signing up to his new job and leaving that he had told _no one._ Not even Arya. He had just vanished off the face of the Earth. The feeling of amusement only lasted until he thought of Sansa calling only for no one to pick up. He didn't need to think much after that. He'd borrowed some paper from Sam Tarly and written:

“ _Dear Sansa,_

_You may wonder where I am -- I wish you knew if someone happens to ask. I have signed up for the Night's Watch Inc., at the army base in the Gift. You may write to this address if you wish. I might return in the Spring._

_Your friend,_

_Jon Snow.”_

That was two years ago.

"I've always considered you my friend but I know what you mean."

He hadn't, not always, but he has a need to be absolute in his affirmations. 

“Really?” She actually sounds surprised, “but I was awful to you.”

Jon is suddenly curious to learn her definition of _awful._ She wasn't his official friend, because he was Robb's, but she was friendly enough. She didn't play with him as Arya and sometimes the boys did. She was older than the kids, seemed older that Robb and him even, liked staying cleaned and poised, making up secret languages while dressing and undressing her dolls. Arya used to make fun of her ways but Robb didn't say anything, though he did snicker when Arya imitated her sister screaming _‘Arya! This is silk!’_ He did know then that Sansa was different but he couldn't word it properly until middle school — unattainable. 

She was smart, she read books meant for people ten years her elders, wrote poems and played cards with her father on the regular — and _won._ Jon knew she was special and not meant for this world.

He'd known she was beautiful, but not how much, not until she came back from summer camp the year him and Robb were starting high school. She had given him a look of admiration he kept safely guarded just for that fact. She had always dreamed of attending high school.

And when she had, oh, how everyone fell at her feet. Teachers, girls, boys — especially boys— they were as captivated as he was, but they couldn't see how her eyes were as sharp as her wit. They only saw the beauty and the charm and Jon hated them — they envied her, all of them. 

"You were never awful. You were always nice enough, giving me advice. I followed it.”

Her cheeks bloom a pinkish red. She has never looked lovelier than right then — matching with her dress and looking at him from under her lashes. He takes a mental picture, wills his heart to stop beating in his ears.

“You did?”

“Of course I did. Like when you said I should ask Beth Cassel to prom. I had a really good time.”

“Oh, Beth,” she says in a longing whisper, “If only she had stayed.”

Beth had grown to be a good friend, a precious link between him and Sansa outside of Robb. It had lasted until school finished as she started Mechanography classes and there was really no point to keep her acquaintance. They had barely nothing left in common by that point. 

She was later arranged to marry a distant cousin and moved to the Riverlands, at the same time all the death had happened. He hadn't seen her in four months when he heard. He had thought he might marry her, only once during high school; she was a funny girl if a bit homely and Sansa had the notion she liked him. It had been just a passing thought, one that left him as soon as it came.

Their conversation moves to school then; Sansa tells him who left, who stayed and what they've been up to. 

They start reminiscing of seemingly easier times — about what a creep Professor Baelish was, how Arya _didn't_ follow Joffrey's nicer brother, Gendry, around; how Robb was so head-over-heels for Margaery he went as far as to hire a carriage pulled by actual white horses to take them to prom. She tells him how Marge married Joffrey and how they're still close friends.

(They don't talk about after).

Then she stops in her tracks and asks him:

“When will you be leaving again?"

They've finished eating a long time ago, their bowls sit empty in front of them. It's dark outside, night already closing in on them. The curtains are drawn back still, but he'll have to leave soon. Sansa is not one to entertain male company after certain proper hours and Jon doesn't want to taint that reputation. 

“My train leaves next Sunday morning.”

Jon watches every one of her movements, the widening of her eyes, the way her she fights her brows to keep from furrowing – he remembers her stating when she was eight _: ‘I do not like how a cross face looks on me.’_

“But-- but it's Tuesday already!”

He nods. He should tell her his contract ends in two months and then he'll be back for good but who's to say he'll not renew? There is nothing left in Winterfell for him.

Only Sansa-- and so much death.

“Then you'll come for tea tomorrow and stay for dinner again.”

  
  


*

  
  
  


He stops by Jory Cassel's bakery on his way to Sansa's.

He has only seen the man twice, once around town and once when he had picked up Beth for that prom. His shop isn't on a street he'd frequented and his goods were too pricey for his mother's elementary school teacher salary. 

His daughter certainly looks like him, at least from what Jon remembers of her, trusting brown eyes the same.

He looks at him like he can't quite place his face but doesn't ask where he might know him from.

He waits for Sansa after ringing, triple chocolate layer cake heavy on his hand.

“Hello!” she greets him, her opening of the door so sudden that he even jumps a little. Her cheeks are flushed and her chest rises and falls rapidly.

“Please come in!” She turns around, willing him to follow her.

There is no hug this time, he notes, no kiss on his cheek, no hands framing his face in an adoring manner.

He closes the door with one hand, balancing his unnoticed cake on the other. He'd make sure to comb his hair properly, but the mirror to his right evidences his bus ride and twenty-block-walk. His long curls are a wild, voluminous thing that makes him look shaggy and unkempt. Of course Sansa wouldn't want to hug him. He hopes he's just blowing it out of proportion.

Then he hears it – laughing. 

“Oh, do come in, Jon Snow!” calls to him a female voice, “don't be shy!”

He moves in a snail-pace towards the kitchen. It's just left of the set of stairs in front of the main entrance. He passes by the big arch that leaves a spacious living room in sight and takes a fortifying breath. He hasn't seen anyone that knows him, not even in a passive manner, just Sansa. 

He's been inside this hand-made bubble ever since he came back, maybe since before that, his only link to the outside world being Sansa's letters.

He's not ready, not even close, to having to act as a normal, sociable human being. With Sansa he can be nothing but himself, though he still keeps his true feelings under his sleeve.

Unfamiliar hands grab at him, seize him from his collar and into-- into a hug.

Margaery Baratheon wears her hair up, a polka-dotted black dress and looks nearly forty.

She's twenty-two though, same as Sansa, but there are wrinkles around her eyes and a vulnerable look to her. She still smiles her patented smile though – a mischievous grin that speaks of trouble.

She had definitely not been friends with him. Beth even said she made fun of him (and Sansa always had his back). He didn't blame her though it had hurt as a teenager. He was a middle class boy, son of a single mother and it wasn't what her private-golf-course and winter-holidays-in-Greece ways were used to.

She still looks it, rich and polished, though there is no trace of that judging girl of old.

“Mrs. Baratheon, how do you do?” He would tip over his hat if he wore one.

“Dispense of that, Jon Snow, it's only Marge for friends.”

Jon thinks he might like this Margaery better. He sees Sansa smiling from the corner of his eye and thinks that maybe she'd like them to sit. 

He remembers the Starks used to take their tea on the parlor, overlooking the gardens where everyone but Sansa played ball or hide-and-seek.

“Where should I put this?” he says to her then, showing off his treat for the afternoon.

“Jon, you shouldn't have!” she exclaims and looks at the package like he made it appear out of thin air. “It looks delicious!” 

She takes the cake from his hands and sets it on the counter, gazing at it appreciatively.

“I'd recognise Mr. Cassel's triple layered chocolate cake anywhere,” Margaery chips in, “though I personally prefer fudge.”

Sansa turns to him, her brow creased. He wishes then he could afford one of those portable cameras journalists have and could take portraits of every one of her gestures.

“You went to Jory's bakery?”

“Of course, it's the best in town,” he smiles at her. Maybe she thinks it too much for his pocket.

“Best quality, best service,” agrees Marge.

“It just thought that-- it would be--,” she sounds distressed, not wanting to look at him properly, “Nevermind.”

Silence grows thick around them, Margaery clicks her heels together. He can only scratch the back of his neck, thinking of something to say.

“Let me-- let me look for my pie knife,” Sansa says, beginning her search, “you two go take a seat in the living room.”

Marge leads the way. 

The living room is even more spacious than Jon had assumed. From the arch you can only see a set of couch chairs around a mouse table that serves as a perfect spot for tea, but upon setting foot on the actual room, one is hit by the sight of a large, shiny chandelier on the right. Under it, a twenty four seater marble dining table. The walls have been painted a creamy white to match and the windows, all six of them looking over the backyard, have golden frames. Jon wonders if they are _real_ gold and wouldn't be surprised if the answer is yes.

Margaery takes a seat in one of the chairs and sighs loudly.

“Do you know what that was about?” 

“Oh, you know, Beth, her leaving, you _know,”_ the brunette rolls her eyes at him. He has no idea what she means.

Two teacups are already waiting for them, perfectly placed on their tiny plates, just the kettle missing.

Margaery is about to add something when he interrupts her, “Where's Sansa's cup?” he asks.

“Oh, one of these is meant for her, I'm sure. I wasn't planning on staying but I thought to pay her a surprise visit since I'm going out of town tonight and when she said you were coming –”

She keeps on giving her explanation while Jon tries to keep his annoyance from showing. Seeing Margaery is nice enough but every moment alone with Sansa is like an elixir that keeps him going — isn't that selfish— and having someone, anyone, needlessly keeping him from that bothers him exceedingly.

“ _Could someone help me with the plates!?”_ Sansa yells from the kitchen and Jon jumps from his seat.

He balances three plates with generous slices on them while Sansa brings the kettle and an extra cup.

“Oh, you needn't have bothered with me,” Marge exclaims, “Joff will arrive any moment.”

Sansa pours their tea and sits down primly on one of the cushioned chairs. “So,” Margaery begins, “how's that heart of yours faring Jon? Any new ladies make their way there yet?”

He gives her a half-smile. There was never anyone new, always Sansa.

“No one's caught my eye in a long time.”

They hear honking then, just after Margaery takes her first sip of tea. Joffrey. If it were any other man, Jon would happily suggest he entered and shared a cup with them. He suspects Sansa would do the same, etiquette demands it so as well.

It's Joffrey Baratheon though and Sansa would rather gut a pup than invite him into her home, so Mrs. Baratheon gives them both a kiss on each cheek and leaves quickly in a flutter of skirts. Her slice sits uneaten.

“So, Mr. _Joffrey Baratheon_ ,” he says as soon as he hears the door click shut.

“Margaery is my friend provided that I don't ever see her husband again and I couldn't more readily agree with that,” she says, gaze moving to the only window that overlooks the street. Joffrey has parked on the other side of it.

“It's a shame for your cake but I would never share it with such a disgusting little man.”

Her words are a compliment compared to what he thinks of Joffrey Baratheon. He's a twisted, dark sort of feller and he feels she shouldn't be close friends with Marge just on the basis that she treats with such a man on a daily basis.

He remembers what he said about Sansa when she turned him down for the prom – the one he had taken Beth Cassel to. “ _I'll rape that little bitch when I have the chance”._ Robb had gotten to him sooner than he had the chance to, beating him bloody and getting himself suspended.

Joffrey had threatened anyone who dared invite Sansa after that, so she had gone alone-- and Jon had danced with her twice. Beth spent most the evening talking with Clay Cerwyn and hadn't minded him keeping Sansa company. 

“If only Robb had done more lasting damage to that conceited twat.”

It's the first time he's said Robb's name aloud in years, he realizes. Sansa doesn't seem shaken by this fact as his whole body does.

“If only,” she agrees, cheeks blushing because it's not a moral thing to wish on another person. Jon feels privileged that she would trust him with this side of her – a side that dares insult and wish harm, according to Catelyn Stark's dictionary, though very much deserved in this case.

They finish their slices and tea. They indulge in a second cup and share half of Marge's abandoned piece.

Their talk turns to politics and Sansa, like him, feels Stannis will win the election and become the town's first local to become a legislator. 

She asks him of the Gift again and he tells her everything – what the medical company does, why his letters were always so impersonal. He could be fired by his loose tongue.

“You could've told me someone was reading my writing!” She says aghast, though she's smiling.

“It's hardly private if it's meant for my eyes!”

“It is.”

She goes serious all of the sudden and once again Jon notices that nighttime is closely approaching them. He should leave. Stay for dinner another time. Two days in a row is too much.

“I'm sorry. I couldn't tell you in case you didn't send more of your lovely verses,” he states, looking into her eyes. 

She doesn't wear makeup normally, though today she is. Her gloss is all but gone from the tea she drank but a bit of the product sticks to her lips, making them shine against the last light of day.

“It's no matter,” she breathes out and he's not imagining her breathlessness. 

He's been staring at her too intently, he realizes.

“I really should go.”

The spell is broken.

“Aren't you staying for dinner?”

The way she says it so softly makes him want to say _yes, yes, of course._

He doesn't-- and he hates to disappoint her. She walks him to the door, hands clasped in front of her pale blue dress. (It isn't her light-blue one with the flowers).

Just as he turns to kiss her goodbye she looks down to the ground and he curses himself for making her feel like he's rejecting her in some way.

“Will you come over to my house for lunch tomorrow?” he asks her, lips almost touching the soft skin of her cheek.

They look like more than two old friends reconnecting, standing so close together, his body half on one side of the door and half on the other.

“Really!?” she says, life returning to her blue eyes. She doesn't seem to mind his nearness.

“Of course. I'll even cook.” 

She chuckles and kisses his cheek. His lips bump against her ear when she does, so he kisses her there. It's over and done with in a few seconds.

“I'll be there by noon.”

If maybe he were her intended or something close to that, he'd politely ask if she'd wear her light-blue dress with the flowers for the occasion but he isn't, so he only smiles, nods and turns to leave. 

She doesn't close the door until he turns the corner.

  
  


*

  
  
  


She arrives at 12 o'clock sharp. Jon wouldn't expect any less from Sansa Stark.

She brings flushed cheeks and smiles. She plops down in a chair immediately, stretches her legs and sighs. He has to stop himself from gaping when he notices her light-brown trousers. _Trousers_. 

“I'm definitely not used to walking.”

She hooks her fingers over her stomach and closes her eyes for a moment.

Bloody hell, he's buying that damn camera.

“Those look good on you.”

“Oh, these?” she asks, hands sliding down those endless legs of hers and he isn't, absolutely _isn't_ staring. “Arya bought them for me. I have to say they _are_ practical.”

“Mmmh,” he says, starting to move around the kitchen, “what would you mother say?”

He hears her shift in her seat. He doesn't have a a counter with stools like she does, doesn't even have a living room. He has a tiny table with three chairs next to the fridge. 

“My mother would say it's high time I got married, for starters. She would forgive the pants, though."

He takes the pasta from the cupboard, fills a pot with water and places it carefully on the stove. When he turns back around, she's standing there, not three feet from his face.

“So, why haven't you?” he croaks out, “Gotten married that is.”

She moves a step to the left and he tries not to graze her with his body when he makes for the fridge, though he fails miserably. Her arm gets in contact with his stomach and he clenches his muscles reflexively. He hopes she hasn't noticed but by the way she takes a sudden interest in the pictures on his wall, he thinks she has.

He starts making the sauce, from scratch, like his mother taught him to. She would be very proud, though the pasta is from the store. 

He notices Sansa hasn't answered his question.

“Sans?”

She whips her head around, eyes watery. She quickly dabs at them and offers an unsure smile.

“Oh, sorry. It's just Robb looks so young in some of these pictures.”

He has three pictures with Robb in total; one in that very same kitchen, taken by his mom, one when they graduated high school and one where Arya, Bran and Rickon appear too, at the old Stark house. Sansa had taken that.

He thinks belatedly that he should've washed his hands, his fingers moist from washing the tomatoes but he rationalizes it after his arms are already around her, one over her shoulder, one over her waist, holding her so, so close.

It becomes an undeniable fact then that she's taller than him, for how she has to bend her back just a little bit for her head to fit in the crook of his neck.

She breathes him in, unrepentant. They start swaying almost imperceptibly, but Jon feels how their touching shifts, from impossibly intimate to barely decorous.

“He's watching over us, always, Sansa.”

Maybe it's this statement or just a need for personal space that has her disentangling from him and brushing her hands over her clothes.

She moves back to the table and he returns to his tomatoes.

They sit in comfortable silence until his vegetables are chopped, seasoned and warming up in a saucepan. He drops the pasta into boiling water and fifteen minutes later, they're eating.

“This is delicious, Jon, thank you,” she says around a mouthful. It might be the cutest thing he's ever seen.

“It was nothing really.”

She shakes her head fervently and assures him that she's never had such a tasty sauce. He gives her a sheepish smile.

“So, you didn't answer my question before,” he observes after a while.

“Why I haven't gotten married, you mean?” she laughs. A drop of salsa is stuck to the corner of her mouth, he fights the urge to wipe it with his finger (or tongue).

“That's because I'm waiting,” she continues, “for someone my dad and mum would approve, that Robb would've liked.”

“That's an easy feat for a man.” It was a true enough statement. There was virtually no one the Stark's disliked, except weasels like Joffrey Baratheon or Petyr Baelish.

“For you maybe,” she whispers, takes a sip of water.

It shouldn't sound as meaningful as it does. It shouldn't feel like she's trying to convey something else with that affirmation, a hidden objective he can't decipher.

She's always had a liking for secret languages.

“For any man that's worth it,” he adds, effectively deflecting himself from the conversation.

“‘ _Bravery, gentleness, strongness’_ ,” she says wistfully, “That's what Daddy used to say qualified a man.”

He remembers everything Ned Stark taught him. He was more than a father figure than his own father had been. He held certain values in a very high regard, everything Sansa said, but also companionship, an eye for beautiful things, reading extensively, being truthful –

He stops there. He hasn't been that, not to Sansa, not to himself. Truthful. But he doesn't know what Ned Stark would think of his affection for his daughter. His most beloved child.

“What do you think qualifies a man?” he inquires, because he hates himself.

“Oh, I'm not too picky, I don't think,” she says, relaxes on her chair, “I think he should be caring, kind, a good listener but mainly kind, yes, and funny –”

He looks down to his empty plate, can't stop from comparing himself to this imaginary male Sansa fantasizes about. He knew he did try to listen but sometimes he was too caught up in his own world; it wasn't hard for him to care and he always made an effort to be kind, always, above of things.

“He shouldn't mind my studying, my writing or my wearing trousers –”

He wouldn't, not ever, doing that would mean he wasn't himself anymore. He'd rather chop off his own fingers.

“He should let me pick the radio station and maybe cook sometimes.”

She deserves so much more than a few faceless traits that any standard man could scrape up if it meant keeping her. She deserves someone who will take her on surprise trips and let her plan everything, someone who'll wake early even if he doesn't have to just to see her off and maybe make her some Dornish toast, someone who would adore her, who'd be devoted to her like a religious man, who'd tell her he loved her often and not only in words and gifts (though he should give her plenty of those, on the daily if possible) but actions — he should iron and take out the trash without being asked and every other chore he could think of.

She smiles at him when she finishes, like she's confessed to some grievous selfish sin and he can't bring himself to say that she should expect more, insist on more. He can't fight her mindset, it's what every girl has been taught to demand: obtainable goals. That's what Lyanna Snow used to say.

_“You'll not be like any of them Jon. You'll not force your opinions, however good they may be, on anyone. Especially girls, you hear me?”_

The price that comes with that teaching, and many others, is that he can't ever be a lawyer or a judge and he has a hard time saying _no_ and complaining, even when things bother him deeply. But maybe that's not a high price, not if he surrounds himself with the right people. 

“That's nice, Sans.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

She does the washing up while he dries and puts everything back in its place. 

They have coffee and talk a bit more. At some point, Sansa starts braiding her hair and it's a most bewitching sight. Her fingers contort and contract around her auburn locks until her braid falls perfectly over her shoulder.

“So, what do you think?”

“I'm really sorry, I got distracted.”

There he goes, not meeting her standards.

She gives him a shy smile. Her pink silk headband slides backwards when she shifts in her seat. She looks something out of a magazine just then. Except she's real and right _there_.

“I said I'm meeting some friends tomorrow but we could see each other on Friday? Maybe go somewhere?”

The fact that she has spent so much time with him already is beyond him. He's not a very expressive talker, doesn't have much to talk about at all really. Sansa always comes up with a story, always has something smart to say, or insightful, she likes to entertain and constantly finds ways to keep the conversation from stagnating and dying a slow death.

“Of course.”

She stands up, starts gathering her things. He gets up too, only to watch her move about the room. 

“Oh, don't bother, really,” he says, setting his hands on hers when she goes to grab their used coffee cups.

She nods at removes her hands from his grasp. Maybe she doesn't want to leave, he thinks for a moment. He shakes that thought before he says something stupid. Sansa is a busy, extroverted person with plenty of friends — she has a life. And she has gifted him enough of her time, has already made plans with him for Friday.

Still, he finds himself offering:

“May I walk you home?”

He tries to convince himself it's just to keep her safe, who knows what kind of creeps might be lurking, waiting to come across a girl to harass. Maybe they aren't even waiting, but would readily seize the opportunity if it manifested, especially with a woman as fine as Sansa. 

He tells himself it's what Robb would've expected, when their hands keep bumping against each other every few blocks, when they start walking in sync.

(“Expected from _whom?”_ he hears a voice that sounds almost like Robb's whisper in his ear, “A friend or a _good_ friend?”)

“We can go see a movie, maybe,” Sansa suggests, turning to look at him briefly, “on Friday I mean.”

He nods when she looks his way again. “I don't read the papers, so I'm a bit out of fashion, but you'll tell me what's worth paying for.”

“What _do_ you read?” she asks.

They pass a few people on the street and Sansa politely greets them all, some with a cheerful ‘hello’ others with a short nod. He just moves his head when he has to. He hasn't paid any attention to anybody the few times he's been on the street since arriving.

He starts noticing there's more people than there used to be, unfamiliar, young faces, lots of dogs and children. He wonders if Sansa knows them all or if she's just nice like that.

“Apart from your work,” he says, dangerously close to her ear and watches her blush, “some books I've brought with me, just sci-fi and a Jules Verne book Robb gave me for my 16th birthday. I borrowed a book from Asrin once, a Sylvia Plath one, but it was too depressing for me.”

“She tends to have that effect on people, yes,” she rewards him with another one of her smiles, he's lost count of how many of those he's seen of late, only that they give him a strength he can't name.

“I mostly re-read your letters, especially the ones that have your poems attached.”

They reach her house when he notes they haven't spoken in four blocks, ever since he stated that fact.

It hadn't seemed as damning because it is actually what he does, but he notices his slip too late. She's already searching for her keys.

The truth is out now, arm's reach away. He's essentially at her mercy.

“Thank you so much Jon, for the food, the coffee,” she says, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his face, “for everything.”

He barely gets his _‘it's no problem’_ out before she's slamming the door on his face.

Jon spends his whole trip back home going over her arrival, the meal, the coffee, the walk. Every bit of conversation replays in his head until the answer is evident, the obvious reason why, the one he already knew. 

She knows exactly _why_ he re-reads her letters and doesn't blame it on simple literary interest, has noticed his constant staring, his greedy need for her. She maybe thought it had grown to something she could no longer keep at bay by being friendly, because it's impossible that she hadn't known it already, since childhood probably.

He has turned, finally, into the man he'd always wanted to avoid at all costs.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


Jon spends his Thursday locked inside like he's being kept hostage.

He tries to fight it, really makes an effort, but ends up where he always knew he would: going over Sansa's correspondence.

He has twenty-four total, one for every month he was at the Gift. The ones he re-reads constantly are mainly four, hand selected. They are the only ones that aren''t in tip-top shape. They have been handled a lot, some of them have smears or creases in places. They tell of where he'd read them-- oil stains from the cafeteria, dried water drops from the melting snow when guarding some entrance, wrinkles from being kept inside his pockets or under his pillow.

He begins by reading the missives. (The verses are always kept for last).

* * *

_“Dear Jon,_

_How glad I am to hear from you. I had grown used to your visiting almost every day and was just about to ring you when the postman came. Your leaving was certainly a surprise, everyone seems to be leaving Winterfell of late, even Beth Cassel left around the time you did to get married, as I'm sure you've heard. Please write soon about your job and how you're faring._

_Warmest regards,_

_Sansa.”_

* * *

He treasures that succinct one so much because it was the first one, the start of their distance friendship. It is also the sole one out of all that has been written in ink. All the others are typed.

Jon has this fantasy, this day-dream he visits often — an out of breath Sansa, rushing to write a response, barely making it in time so as her epistle was dispatched that very same day. The Gift is only a train ride away, barely forty-five minutes, but who really knows what route correspondence takes. 

Another one he holds very dear to his heart is maybe the fourth, fifth one he got. She'd mentioned starting college and writing classes in her previous one, so he'd ask her to update him on that and any other events, and to test him on any writing she'd wanted.

* * *

_“PLEASE READ THIS FIRST;_

_Dear Jon,_

_I've started my Anthropology classes and I'm so happy! I'm one out of five girls, so it can be a bit intimidating, but I'll not let that get to me. It's just part of the experience. My creative writing classes, on the other hand, are for girls only and it's the most fulfilling training I've ever received. I've attached a bit of prose I wrote after the first class. Despite being more narrative oriented, it connects me to a side of myself that can only be expressed through poetry._

_I should tell you something, and I hope you're sitting down — we've sold the house. I'm not one to discuss money but saying the sale was more than sufficient is enough. Arya and I have bought a lovely home, just a few blocks from our old one, a tad bit smaller but that's better since it's only the two of us. Arya says hi, by the way._

_As for my frame of mind, I've been doing a lot better. I'm not as angry anymore. Marge Tyrell has been a terrific help, taking me out of the house, booking us spa sessions and yoga classes. You should try it if you have a chance to around the Gift!_

_Please write about you-- you always ask about me but you never say how you're feeling. You've been sorely missed this past Easter._

_Wishing you the best,_

_Sansa.”_

* * *

On a purple piece of paper she had sent nine typed sentences, the first part of three he had received. 

* * *

_“Dear Jon,_

_Arya has started her travels and left for Dorne just this morning. The house does seem quieter without her, but she promised she'd be back in time for Christmas. What about you? Do you think the Gift can spare his best man?_

_I hate that she's going off alone but by the way she keeps coming home so late I dare say it'll not be for long. I just hope she calls at least once a week or writes often._

_Anyways, I've been writing some stories, though they're too long to be put in an envelope. As for poems, I only have some lines without any context whatsoever that came to me recently._

_I think of them as a continuation of the ones I sent you a few months ago, the very first ones._

_I hope you're doing well. I visited your mother's grave yesterday, left her daisies, since you said they were her favourite._

_You're in my thoughts,_

_Sansa.”_

* * *

The mentioned lines came as the first ones had, typed in a purple piece of paper. Jon had read them until they were branded in the back of his head.

* * *

“ _Jon,_

_Thank you for your kind words on my silly poems. You don't know how much I treasure them. And since I've been sharing so much with you I might as well share this: you are the only person that has read them._

_I've been considering sending something to the newspaper since they accept local pieces regardless of experience but I don't feel ready to expose myself like that just yet._

_This letter is going to be very short since I've no news, only that I've finally finished my tripartite prose and couldn't wait to send it. I've attached it as usual._

_Please_ _write soon._

_Love,_

_Sansa.”_

* * *

Jon always makes sure to read the attachments in proper order, though they came separately. 

He had waited until he was alone, that first time, aligned the three sheets of bright purple paper on his bed and read:

**_«i am a hoarder of feelings. i am stiff. i am an empty well._ **

**_i haven't written in a while — the words are all piled up, mixed and nonsensical._ **

**_it would be easier if they saw reason, if they could act like nice girls and come out in orderly fashion._ **

**_but they have a mind of their own — they speak their own tongue and follow their own rules._ **

**_it is me who hasn't a choice in the matter. they will let themselves out until they make space for me again. then I will close the lid and hold my breath,_ **

****

**_hold._ **

**_/_ **

**_in my head i can fly high, i can run as fast and as hard as the boys. i am able to speak every language ever spoken._ **

**_no one knows it. i am the girl who yells and talks to herself._ **

**_(that too)._ **

**_/_ **

**_if i were to leave this place, i'd grab you by the ankle and apologize later._ **

**_am i so meaningless to you? an afterthought of an afterthought?_ **

**_you close my eyelids with the tips of your fingers. your voice is but a whisper, a cool breeze that tells me secrets from somewhere i cannot yet reach._ **

**_i used to belong to a pack. now i am searching._ **

**_i feel it still, i see it without having to close my eyes — your breathing on the shell of my ear. the girls were screaming but you made silence stretch and stretch._ **

**_i do not fear the emptiness now,_ **

**_though it is only a memory — someone yells next door, someone yells in the street, someone's always yelling since you're not here.»_ **

  
  


*

  
  
  


She calls pretty early on Friday. She's changed her mind about the movies and Jon is secretly thankful for it. He'd rather look and talk to her than sit in a darkened room in silence.

“You should come for breakfast,” she says, “I'm making pancakes and a fresh pot of coffee.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

He doesn't run to her house like his heart is urging him to. He wouldn't want to arrive all sweaty and disgusting but opts not to waste time waiting for the bus.

Instead he walks a steady pace, morning sun on his skin making him feel like he's been out of the house after some ten, nine years though it's been merely hours. He even greets a few ladies and gentlemen on the street, who probably judge his lack of hat but blame it on his youth. He's only twenty-four after all, a young man in his prime.

He passes a man selling bouquets for a very affordable price. He doesn't want to overwhelm Sansa that early in the day, so he buys one red rose.

It grants him a kiss and a sweet ‘ _oh, Jon, you needn't have bothered’_ from her.

She looks dashing in a pale yellow sweater and her brown trousers. She wears a pair of white heels that aren't too high but do add a few centimetres, forcing him to look _up_ at her. It shouldn't light a fire in his belly, it really shouldn't.

Sansa leads him into the kitchen, where a soft-pop tune is coming from the radio nearby. The sight and smell of pancakes greet him and he feels as one of Lyanna Snow's most used phrases: _‘As pleased as Punch.’_

His mother used to say that about him often, especially when she told the story of the first and only time she had taken him to Disneyland.

He grins stupidly at the memory.

“Thank you so much,” he says, props a kiss to Sansa's cheek and sits down. 

“You haven't even tried them yet!” She's grinning from ear to ear as well, her hands gripping the counter, looking at him with those blue eyes of hers.

The pancakes are, as predicted, out of this world amazing, right amount of sweet and fluffy. 

“I could eat these forever!” he says, mouth full of pancake, “Mind filling my cup again?”

He's drowned his coffee. Sansa nods and pours him more of the black drink. She puts both her hands under her chin and watches him, Jon notices then that she isn't eating.

“Aren't you hungry?”

“Oh, I don't do well with sugar this early in the day,” she explains, “but I know you love them.”

Her hand goes to fetch her cup, but he grabs it before she can reach it, holds it tightly but not so much that she can't yank it back if she wanted.

She doesn't, in fact she holds his back.

“You shouldn't feel obligated to do things for me.”

“Who says I am?”

He stares at their joined hands. He begins moving them, examining her palm and back of her hand, milky skin so soft he wonders what it would feel caressing his face, his neck, down his back. He intertwines her fingers with his, eyes moving back to hers.

Jon counts two, three, four freckles across her cheekbones, three on the left and one on the right. Her auburn hair is tied back in a modest ponytail. She sports the same pink headband she worn to his house. He itches to ask if she's kept her light-blue dress.

“These last few days have been great.”

“Please don't,” she says, letting go of his hand, “don't start saying goodbye just yet. We still have the rest of today and tomorrow for ourselves.”

She really intends to be in his company until he has to go back? She would sacrifice her free time so?

“You really don't have to,” he says, shaking his head, “I know you must be really busy. I really appreciate you putting up with me.”

“It's no chore. I don't want you to be alone.”

A sardonic smile tugs at his lips then. Of course he's a charity case. He must seem the saddest man alive (he plays the part exceedingly well). She's a bright woman who has dealt, and probably still is, with so much grief-- of course she wishes to help him. He's Jon Snow, her big brother's best friend, a boy she knows since the innocent years of childhood.

“You must know I'm fine,” he states, though he's voice cracks a bit over the last word, “you shouldn't force yourself to make space for me.”

“None of that. You're my friend. A dear friend I haven't seen in two whole years and don't know when I'll see again. Of course I want to spend as much time with you as possible.”

He smiles her achingly sweet Sansa smile and tries to take his hand again. He doesn't let her. Only because he, again, hasn't been entirely truthful.

“My contract ends in two months, Sansa. I'll probably come back again or go somewhere, I don't know yet, but you'll see me,” he sighs loudly, catches a picture of a smiling Arya stuck to the fridge, “Maybe I'll catch up to Arya after, go the Riverlands, I–”

“No, you can't!” she cries out. “Jon, I know you miss her but you just can't! She's a married woman now, you can't just reappear in her life!”

Times seems to stop in that moment. She looks almost devastated, as if she can feel a pain coming from him, one he ignores. Her hand grabs his forearm from across the counter, a consoling gesture. She'd done that when he'd told her about his mother's illness — he hadn't known he was leaving, not yet. 

"What?"

"Oh, don't play coy, Jon. Beth Cassel. I always knew you fancied her, I'm so sorry she left and got married so out of the blue, but it's too late!"

His mind is spinning. Did she think he-- ? Beth was nice but it never was anything more than a friendship. He was sure Beth knew about his-- his _thing_ for Sansa.

“Maybe if she'd told us beforehand I could've told you and things would maybe be different but I was kept just as in the dark as you."

Her hand squeezes one more time and drops to her side but her gaze is still pointedly regretful. _‘No one's caught my eye in a long time.’_ He remembers saying that twice in her presence. She thought he meant Beth Cassel!?

And suddenly it's crystal clear.

“ No! No--No, Sansa. You got it all wrong!”

He knows he's overreacting but he can't stop himself. He stands up and almost kicks his stool over. She looks up at him in open surprise and time picks up its pace again and he feels the urge to rush, to not let her think for one more moment that he ever had an eye for Beth Cassell (Beth Cassel of all people!). 

It's true that it seems suspicious, him leaving shortly after her marriage was announced. And if Sansa suspected residual feelings from school, if she thought he liked her then, it wasn't crazy for her to join those dots. 

Except that it was. He should've sensed it when she sent him that drawing Beth had done in school in one of her letters, how she had reacted about him going to her father's bakery, how often she found a way to bring her up, even if they didn't have that many memories with her that were more meaningful than having lunch in the cafeteria. Even Margaery's ‘you _know’_ made sense now.

“I never liked her like that! We were friends! And barely that!" He knows he's defying language linearity, his words overlap and fight against each other in their quest to reach Sansa's ear. He thinks of the months, the years she's been convinced of this and it's so ridiculous he wants to laugh.

He only remembers that prom Beth was his date because Sansa had worn her light-blue dress with the flowers and the fabric had been so soft in his hands when he'd asked her to dance (twice). It had been an awkward 'date' actually, he had barely known Beth, barely saw her that night, their casual friendship only beginning a few weeks or so later.

“I was never attracted to her. Not even in school. We were, and I can't emphasise this enough, really, absolutely, completely and unequivocally just friends!”

He thinks he might have dug himself deeper then. Who even denies something with such force and isn't lying? But her pink mouth forms a silent ‘o’ and the sight shouldn't stirr him as it does.

“But I-- I was so sure! You always seemed so affected that I--,” She sounds as dumbfounded as she looks, not taking her eyes off him, a revelation she never thought possible, “When news of her engagement broke, I thought your leaving was born from that, I thought you couldn't handle her loss. And she was the only girl besides Arya you were with in school… I can't believe--.”

"And you."

"What?"

It's a realization for him too, though a different sort. He hasn't been as absolute in his affirmations as he thought then, not nearly as stupidly obvious, not as transparent as he felt before her.

"The only girl besides Arya and _you_ . She wasn't the one _affecting_ me.”

The coffee has gone cold long ago. His brain has decided to ignore any and all noises coming from the radio. (He prefers devoting his attention to every breath Sansa takes).

“The loss I couldn't handle was your family's and my mother's. Maybe I will never handle them. That's the real reason I left, you were right that I was _affected,_ but not by the feelings you think –”

He walks around the edge of the counter, standing in front to her. 

“Isn't it old news, a man wanting to escape death at any cost, though he knows well enough it's his true destiny? I couldn't-- I _can't_ think I will never see Robb again. Or your little brothers and parents. I try not to scream when I open the door to my mother's bedroom and she isn't there-- she isn't anywhere. So, it's better if I'm far away. That way I can convince myself they're all happy and healthy and alive."

He's making her cry. Hot, heavy tears fall from her blue eyes and roll down her cheeks, likely splashing on the wooden floor.

His hand finds her cool cheek. She nuzzles into him softly and for a moment he decides to kiss her. He doesn't though, only wipes away a tear with his thumb.

“But if by _affected_ you mean lovesick, you got it wrong. I've been lovesick since I was seven or maybe eight. Memory fails me though I couldn't say for sure even if it didn't. I can't remember when this ailing started, only that it has never lessened, though I haven't done right by it.”

She sighs, her breath warm against his arm. Her right hand comes up his waist and draws him closer, his hand finds her other cheek and now he's the one framing her face, softly, gently. 

She's six, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen--- twenty-two; all the years he's loved her all at once.

Maybe this is the idea of her he could never make out properly, only felt and caught in glimpses, his final realization — she's timeless, a being so full of life he can't but follow her and be at her mercy, and yes, he left, he tried to forget what pained him, but he could never truly leave her, save she willed him to.

“I'm glad you didn't know it. You deserve to hear it from my own mouth. I love you, desperately."

She turns her head to the side, brushes a kiss to the inside of his palm. He can't stop himself from kissing her forehead, then her cheeks. It's just two quick pecks, not wanting to impose, but it seems the right thing to do, because Sansa closes her eyes, hums briefly and he feels he could levitate right then and there.

“I love you too, Jon,” she whispers, and his smile stretches impossibly further, “I was so sure that you were sweet on Beth and didn't even notice me. I thought you only saw me as Robb's little sister. You were always so distant with me."

He wonders if he'll be able to handle it if she kisses him. _When*_ she kisses him, he should say. The thought is nearly too much.

"That's because I thought you only saw me as Robb's friend and I didn't want to be like Joffrey Baratheon, drooling all over you. I thought you were so unreachable, you still are so out of my league." He smiles, dragging his thumbs slowly along her jaw, until he reaches her chin and dares to touch her lips. They're a bit swollen from her crying, entrancing and inviting. She kisses his fingers and Jon lets her go slowly. Almost every line is crossed, but he'd rather say everything he has to.

“I'm gonna take you somewhere nice tomorrow, I'll wear a suit and all.”

“Really? A date?” 

The way she says it almost has him running to fetch his jacket and take her anywhere, freaking McDonald's even. 

Both her hands go around his waist and, oh, how good it feels to be _allowed_ to hold each other like this.

"Really, Sans. Will you wear that light-blue dress with the flowers?”

Their foreheads touch and she nods slowly. Everytime he pictured her, under the falling snow of the Gift, she was wearing that dress.

“I'll take you dancing, if you want. I promise I won't step on your feet –”

She holds him impossibly closer, so much so he can feel the outline of her ribs through his shirt. They start swaying to a tune, Jon notices faintly that the radio is still on, has been all this time. He should shut up and savor the moment, but he feels so _full_ he has to let it out.

“We can go see a movie before or after, if you want, or we can come back here and have some coffee –”

Her hands are gently caressing his back, a content sigh escapes her and if he were a worse man he knows he could get her to say yes to anything.

“I'll take off that pretty dress of yours, we don't have to do anything, and I'll call you baby if you let me.”

“And you'll stay.”

She leaves enough space between them so she can look him in the eye. He sees everything then — everything that was and that will be. What _is_ is that moment, which will be the present even when it is the past. Her blue eyes, impossibly transparent to him now. He would say yes to anything she asked of him.

“I will.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from Emma by Jane Austen. Sorry for the abrupt ending but I actually wanted that effect :)


End file.
